


Purity Like Sunlight

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Prostate Milking, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean cherishes his chasteness. Javert helps him deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purity Like Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotAnymore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnymore/gifts).



> A treat for missellamason's prompt "valjean long-term orgasm denial".

Javert is warm and familiar against him when he wakes. Almost as familiar is the heat that washes through his body, concentrating in a warm, heavy throb between his legs that leaves him flushed and mortified. He knows what he would feel if he touched himself now. The thought alone makes him _need_ so much that he swallows and presses his face into the pillow, trying to stifle his embarrassment. 

A hand comes to rest on his hip. A mouth nuzzles sleepily at his nape. He bites his lip to keep back the embarrassed sound that wants to escape when Javert's hand slides down to where he is hot and hard, long fingers curling firmly around him, as if that is where they belong. Valjean feels his pulse throb fast and hard at his throat, but makes no move to disturb that possessive hand.

Javert makes a sleepy sound against his skin, presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder while he continues to hold him in his hand, his grip certain and warm as Valjean aches with helpless need.

“Mm. How long has it been now? A month?”

Valjean feels his face grow warm. He is glad that Javert does not face him, although that should not be more embarrassing than having Javert touch him so intimately. It is nearly unbearable, that firm, confident grip, and his body, used to long deprivation and denied fulfillment for weeks now, trembles with the nearly uncontrollable urge to thrust into Javert's grip.

Instead, he forces down the need, remains motionless as he suffers the pain of his unchaste desires, feeling it grow into throbbing, hot pain. How much longer can he fight this? He flushes with humiliation at the thought of losing control of his body now, like this, and then Javert's hands slide down to the base of his hard, disobedient flesh, and grip him there with cruel tightness, and the gasp that escapes him as his hips try to buck up is one of relief. Like this, he can let go of control at last – the pain of his need is still nearly unbearable, but with Javert's tight grip on him, it is impossible to shame himself by spilling his seed, and so he remains motionless in Javert's grasp, biting his lip to hold back undignified sounds as Javert's other hand slowly, methodically explores his balls.

“A month, and you have been so good.” Javert's breath is warm against his nape as he speaks. Another kiss is pressed to his skin as Javert's thumb presses against his sensitive, swollen balls as if to find the point when Valjean cannot bear it any longer, but he can bear it, he can bear anything for such a reward. “So chaste for me. Ah, you are a saint. Yes. I ought to reward that later.”

Valjean shivers. When Javert's hands release him at last, he has to stifle his moan in the pillow again. He feels warmth, the soft, firm stroke of a large hand down his back, Javert's mouth lazily nuzzling his neck, and then Javert rises.

* * *

The tub is filled with warm water. It is not truly large enough for two grown men, but they make do, and Valjean does not mind the way they end up pressed together, with warm, slick skin against his back, and Javert's arms around him. Javert drags the bar of soap over his chest, works up a lather of fine, white foam, then at last, with his foam-covered fingers, reaches down between his legs and cleans him there. His flesh, still disobedient, strains lewdly against Javert's fingers, and Valjean has to bite his lip as he watches Javert's fingers smooth back the foreskin to reveal the blood-dark crown. He does not move, he simply watches, hot with shame, as soapy fingers clean away the slickness there. Immediately, more wells up, and Javert's fingers travel down, brushing his balls again. They feel so heavy and full that even the gentle touch is a torment. For a moment, there is the sensation of hot breath against his neck as Javert plays with him, carefully feeling and squeezing his swollen balls as if to test their fullness, and the truth of Valjean's chasteness.

Valjean is breathing heavily. It is so hard to remain still; it is almost impossible now, and though he cannot bear the thought of allowing his body's base needs to win over his heart's need to prove his chasteness, the pain of unfulfilled need is fierce now. It is no longer pleasure to be touched; it is fire, burning agony, a worse torment than the lash, and still he remains silent and still as Javert's fingers gently part and roll and squeeze his swollen balls in their pouch. He is trembling and slick with sweat when Javert releases him at last, and those large hands begin to massage his tense thighs instead, as if to calm him.

“There,” Javert says, and though his voice must meant to be soothing, Valjean thinks that he can detect a hint of heat in it, the same need that makes it so hard for him to breathe. He hopes so. He knows that Javert likes touching him. He knows, too, how Javert forced him to turn around, bewildered and hurt, that first time Javert breached his body and found release inside him in an obscene rush of hot wetness, while Valjean, aroused nearly out of his mind by the sensation of Javert's pleasure and the sounds he made, denied himself his own release.

He does not think Javert understood then, despite his embarrassed, shameful attempts to explain. He is not quite certain if Javert truly understands, even now, but Javert is content to let him have the sweetness of this experience, to let him taste Javert's pleasure untainted by his own selfish needs, and let him prove himself stronger than his body's cravings again and again.

Yes, there is this, too: he can hear the heat in Javert's voice as his own body tenses with the nearly impossible need to fight back the burn of desire. Maybe Javert does not completely understand – but Valjean hopes that a part of Javert as well delights in seeing Valjean prove his strength of will over and over again. And there is nothing about Javert that is selfish these days, after they have found solace in each other. Javert is generous with his touch; when Valjean is hot and flushed and trembling from what the steady thrusts of Javert's prick within him arouse, Javert will keep touching him, will stroke his sweaty skin until Valjean very nearly comes apart from that gentleness alone, will whisper overwhelmed words of adoration to his nape, will kiss him and hold him in the darkness until neither of them can ever forget again that they are no longer alone, that they are needed, that they are loved.

It is enough for Valjean. He loves those moments: the intensity of Javert's desire for him, the strain of their bodies, the nearly unbearable weight of the lust Javert's touch wakes within him – and that sweet, sweet burn of denying himself the fulfillment of all his body craves, until every nerve of his body feels raw, and he experiences Javert's release and pleasure with an intensity that can never be surmounted by the paltry, shameful relief his own body craves. 

He does not truly deny himself pleasure, for there is nothing Javert does he does not take pleasure from. He denies himself _selfishness_ , and that perpetual, sweet ache enables him to appreciate Javert's pleasure all the more.

When Javert's fingers move gently through his hair, he leans back against his chest. Lips nuzzle at the damp strands; when Javert speaks at last, his voice is heavy with lust, and Valjean enjoys the answering, painful throb of blood between his own legs.

“Ah, you have been so good. Too good for me, my saint. I'll let you choose your reward. Your pleasure and your release – or, I will let you use your mouth on me, for my own pleasure. What would you rather have?”

Valjean clenches his teeth against the moan that wants to escape; it comes out as a strangled whimper, and between his legs, the throb of his pulse is hot and painful. He clenches his fingers around the rim of the tub as he fights temptation.

“Let me...” he begins, then falls silent, flushing a deeper red, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he tries to force out the words that even now embarrass him too much to speak them aloud. “I want to – ah, Javert, do not make me–”

Javert brushes the damp hair away from his nape, kisses a line of heat up to his ear. “It is your choice. You will have to tell me, or you shall have neither.”

Another sound of embarrassment escapes him before he can clench down on it. “Let me... please let me...” He breathes heavily, mortified, his entire body flushed with embarrassment. “Let me put my mouth on you, I – please!”

There, he has said it; heat and shame rush through him in a wave so strong and hot that nearly it is too much, nearly he spills himself from the shameful admission alone, and Javert's lips curve against his ear, and his hand rests warm and certain over his heart.

“Good. Come, get up. You shall need assistance in a different way then; I will not have you suffer. Against the wall.”

* * *

Water drips from his body as he leans forward against the wall. He listens as Javert steps out of the tub as well, listens as he towels himself dry, then waits, breathless and inexplicably shy, as Javert walks up to him and then stops. Fingers come to rest against his thighs; the touch is light, but he knows what it means and spreads his legs in obedience at the gesture, squeezing his eyes shut against the sight of his disobedient flesh throbbing hot and hard between his legs as he makes himself so vulnerable.

He has never asked Javert where he learned such a thing. He thinks it must be Toulon. He tells himself that it does not matter as he listens to Javert and the soft, wet sounds he makes as he uses the bar of olive soap to work up another lather of fine, white foam. He tries to breathe deeply as two soapy fingers penetrate him; they curl within him until an overwhelmed sound escapes him when they press just _there_ with merciless precision, and he clenches his fingers, trembles helplessly, moaning as the skilled, cruel torment goes on and on, broad fingers massaging inside him. It is overwhelming; it is too much – he thinks he cannot bear it, shudders from the impossible that is asked of him, and again and again the fingers move and press against him, so slowly, so relentlessly, that he does not even realize that he is crying until the tears drip down his face, and still Javert's fingers keep up the massage. 

Liquid leaks from him now. His eyes open and he sees it drip to the floor, the soft, wet splash as depraved as the sight of the long strings of sticky, clear fluid, and then a first drop of white wells up, swelling into an obscene, fat pearl that makes him shudder with instinctive shame. Javert's fingers keep pressing relentlessly, forcing more and more of his spend out of the small opening until it is too much and it drips to the floor as well, and Javert's fingers keep rubbing within in demand for more. As always, his body obeys, ignoring Valjean's own will, producing more and more of his seed at the continual, pitiless stimulation.

His tears continue to fall. His body trembles, and it goes on and on. Javert is merciless in this, and Valjean, who has so often taken refuge in the knowledge that his mind shall win over the weakness of his flesh, feels driven to the limits of what he can bear. It is too much, it is impossible – then Javert's other hand comes to rest in his hair, stroking him with such loving gentleness that Valjean squeezes his eyes shut again, more tears dripping down his cheeks, and he turns his head to nuzzle into the touch while Javert's fingers keep up their work inside his body. He spreads his legs further apart, panting helplessly as Javert's fingers press and massage with cruel, immovable slowness, working his seed out of his body. 

Time passes slowly. His tears still fall, and every now and then Javert gently wipes them away. His spend is forced from him without mercy; the relentless drip of his seed, the obedience of his body to the demand's of Javert's fingers instead of his own will makes him tremble with humiliation, and still he endures as it goes on and on.

At last, it is done, Javert's fingers are pulled out of him, and he feels stretched and sore and wretchedly empty, as if Javert's fingers have not only forced all of his seed and tears out of him, but also all of the unholy desire, so that all that is left now is the bitterness of shame. Javert's arms come up around him; he only realizes how tightly clenched his fists are when Javert's hands trail up his arms, and he surrenders his hands to Javert's massage as well.

“Better?” Javert asks softly against his ear. Valjean cannot answer; he shivers instead, and although there should be no tears left, he fears he might shed new tears were he to open his mouth.

Javert's lips brush against his tear-stained cheek. For a long moment, they remain like this, and after a while, the warmth of Javert spreads through him, and the trembling lessens, and he manages to turn and wrap himself in that embrace with a tired sigh. Javert's hands stroke up and down his back now, gentling him, until Valjean feels embarrassment return at craving that sort of comforting, and with it the first stirrings of pleased relief that he has withstood temptation. His will proved stronger than his body once more; in this, he is chaste, and he can give to Javert without being ruled by selfish pleasure. It is freeing to feel himself soft and tired, unroused despite the way Javert presses hot and hard against his thigh. He breathes deeply, then buries a hand in Javert's hair at last as Javert's lips brush his.

“So much,” Javert murmurs against his lips a while later, and the hand that trails down his body to wrap lightly around his empty, sore balls leaves no doubt as to what he means. Valjean feels another flush heat his face at the thought of the mess he has left on the floor, the large puddle of his seed at their feet. He would fall to his knees to lick it all up, unquestioning, pleased to have a chance to show his devotion, if Javert gave him any sign that it was required. He would do it for nothing but his own pleasure, for there is a satisfaction to kneeling on the hard stone, and pressing his tongue to the tiles, and tasting his shame and his salvation alike, and remembering those sublime creatures without reproach behind the convent walls and their expiation – but his knees still tremble after everything Javert has wrung from him, and he is glad for Javert's embrace. 

“Ah, so much. It must have been hard, this month. And still you remained so perfectly chaste. You did not even touch yourself once. Not even in your sleep. You let me touch you, and still you stayed chaste for me.” Javert's voice is quiet and admiring, and it spreads over still raw nerves like a balm. “You can take another month then.” 

It is not a question, and it does not have to be. Valjean feels wrung out, exhausted – but the thought of resisting selfish pleasure and the temptation of his body's baseness for another month wakes something in him. He gives Javert a small smile, allowing himself to think again of the sweetness of that moment when Javert loses control and finds his pleasure inside him and his own body throbs with unfulfilled yearning. Maybe one day, that will stop, he thinks, wistfully imagining what it could be like to be with Javert, his body pure and chaste and unroused simply because he wills it to be, while Javert's pleasure spreads through him and warms him and gives him a far greater fulfillment in his surrender to it than the petty, shameful pleasures of his own flesh.

But for now, he is at peace, drained of all base desires, and as Javert's large hands glide in admiration over his body, he bathes in the purity of it like sunlight.


End file.
